My MIL is a fairly active woman, but her weight has been known to fluctuate. Over the year’s she has ranted to me about the chocolate truffles she should have said no to at Christmas, or the second helping of pasta that’s going straight to her hips, and in the past I’ve always tried to be friendly and supportive. “Ugh, I know,” I’d say, “It’s so hard to resist temptation over the holidays,” or, “But you play tennis all the time. You need the extra carbs!”

It never used to bother me because — let’s be honest — I complain about my weight, too. Or, at least, I used to. Now I have a 7-year-old daughter and everything has changed. I no longer stare at my profile in the full-length mirror, sucking in my tummy or pinching excess fat. I still maintain a healthy diet but I indulge in popcorn and ice cream on family movie night. And when I go to the gym, I don’t whine about the bulge of my belly or needing to work on my jiggle. I’ve changed my negative attitude because I’m a mother now, and what I say and do matters to my children. My daughter is one of those girls who is 7-going-on-17, and I know she’s paying attention to my actions. We love to primp together and try on all my clothes. She gives me fashion advice by telling me which color brings out my eyes or if it’s a dress I can twirl in, not whether or not it makes my a*s look fat.

And, that is why I need to have a word with you, MIL. I am too polite to say this to your face, but when we came for a visit last month you really f*cked up, and here’s how:

From morning until night, you complained about your weight. You said your jeans were too tight, you whined that you eat too much, you lamented about your last failed diet and gave a detailed description of the new one. (Annoying.)

And you weren’t just dissing your weight — you gossiped to us about your daughter, and the fact that she’s been putting on pounds lately, too. (Dude, have some respect.)

You marveled when I handed my kids a bowl of peanuts and then tsk tsk’d me because nuts are so high in fat. (Dude, you’re judging me over nuts? Yesterday they tried to eat Play Doh — where were you then?!)

You counted every single calorie that went into your mouth, and you didn’t do it quietly. You got out your calorie counting app and you made it look like a game. Every time you logged your salad or your shepherd’s pie you giggled and made dieting seem fun. (For realz, that is inexcusable.)

Listen, it’s fine if you want to be healthy and use skim milk (which, BTW, isn’t actually better for you), but it is not okay to b*tch about your flab in front of my daughter.

Literally for a week straight you were glued to your phone, snickering over the foods you’d eaten compared with the logged meals of your other “app friends.” And you know what? I’m sure you didn’t even realize you were doing something wrong. Why would you?

My daughter is adorable and petite without an ounce of fat on her body … but who’s to say she’s going to stay that way? Maybe my daughter will grow up to be long and lean like her dad, or maybe she’ll be a bit softer and have to work harder to stay fit, like I do. Either way, I want her to grow up in a loving and supportive home and learn all the body shaming bullsh*t from the b*tches in her high school — not her own goddamn grandmother!

So, here’s the deal. Keep your BMI and your calorie counting app to yourself, lady, or I’m taking that iPhone and flushing it down the toilet.